


Made For the Big Time

by Shaitanah



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-18
Updated: 2012-01-18
Packaged: 2017-10-29 18:31:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/322856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shaitanah/pseuds/Shaitanah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three years later, this is Sherlock Holmes apologising. And he still sucks at it. [speculatively 3 years post-Episode 2x03, “The Reichenbach Fall”. SPOILERS!]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Made For the Big Time

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Steven Moffat, Mark Gattiss, the BBC and anyone who’s not me own this.  
> A/N: I wanted to use this idea for crack but 2x03 burned my heart out, so here’s some angst. XD Could be read as gen, pre-slash or slash, whatever floats your boat.  
> Dedication: for e.nara. <3

“I like the gravestone,” Sherlock says.

 

And John says: “What gravestone?”

 

No, it doesn’t start here. Too late. John needs time to think.

 

Bart’s is where it begins. Or maybe the park bench where Mike Stamford first mentions the flat mate that no one wants to share flats with. Or perhaps even Afghanistan. John isn’t exactly sure.

 

But there’s no need to dial so far back. There is already a lump in his throat. He skips last night’s session with Ella because – there is nothing there. Not a single word about anything that is remotely important. John used to believe he was immune to boredom. Emptiness, weariness, doubt – those used to plague him occasionally. Not boredom. But lately he has been drowning in platitudes, trifles, _triviality_.

 

There was a time when nothing happened.

 

Nothing happens again.

 

“You got divorced,” Sherlock says. It’s a statement, not a question. Sherlock never asks about important things; he knows them.

 

But no, too late again. It doesn’t start there either.

 

John skips right ahead to the beginning of this day. Completely identical to so many days before. Get up. Have breakfast. Go to work. See patients. Don’t let patients see you.

 

Next.

 

“What are you complaining of?” John asks, without looking up.

 

“I can’t give up smoking.” This is where _it_ begins.

 

John takes a short, deep breath and raises his head. Three years ago he asked for a miracle.

 

“Have you tried–?” _getting punched in the face, repeatedly, by a non-smoker? Maybe it’s infectious._ “Hypnotherapy.”

 

“It works on weak minds,” Sherlock says as he inches closer. There are a lot of things on John’s mind about leopards and their spots and washing charcoal white, but he doesn’t bother putting any of that into words. If he does, he will be the one needing a doctor.

 

“Nicotine patch,” he suggests.

 

“Boring,” Sherlock parries. “You got divorced.”

 

Straight to the point. The thin white stripe on John’s ring finger must have given him way. Sherlock, ever so observant.

 

“Oh no, Molly told me,” Sherlock says, noticing the direction of John’s look that is supposed to be surreptitious. “But that’s obviously the way I would have figured it out if I hadn’t been…” He trails off, then picks the sentence up: “Already aware of it.”

 

“Right. Cold turkey?”

 

“John…” Dear Lord, he sounds almost uncertain. John balls his fists hard enough to see the knuckles turn white – because he really, _really_ wants to punch him.

 

“Maybe try and direct your energy towards something else,” John says, very professionally. “Something that would keep you distracted.”

 

“I like the gravestone,” Sherlock offers. That’s the most rubbish peace offering John has ever received.

 

“What gravestone?”

 

“My gravestone!” Sherlock says, hints of impatience creeping into his voice. John realizes belatedly that Sherlock is just bursting with the desire to explain his miraculous comeback. Oh, that must be marvelous, stunning, ingenious. Clever, clever Sherlock – dream on.

 

Doctor Watson looks back to his paperwork.

 

“If you haven’t got any _real_ complaints,” he says, “I suggest you leave me to my work. My office hours end in forty-five minutes.”

 

Sherlock snorts. “Come on, John, don’t be like that. Aren’t you curious? Not even a little bit?”

 

With Sherlock, it’s always _how_ coming before _why_. John wonders if he’s outgrown that approach.

 

“Pay everyone off again. Have Mycroft pay the whole bloody country off, to be safe.”

 

“I had to die,” Sherlock says, an apologetic intro to an adventure short story. “I wanted to contact you many times but there have been obstacles. But I’m back now.”

 

John makes a thoughtful face. “Were you gone?”

 

Sherlock blinks. “I was _dead_ for three years.” It’s a really stupid game, his facial expression says. John disagrees. John thinks it’s kind of funny.

 

“Really?” he shrugs. “I hadn’t noticed.”

 

“We both know you don’t do that,” Sherlock says, irritably. “I do that. It’s my thing. You pay too much attention to every silly little mundane detail to overlook someone’s absence.”

 

John grinds his teeth together. There will be marks on his palms later.

 

“You mean things like you not being in the room when I was talking? Or not being there to ruin my first date with Mary? Or that you weren’t at my stag night or my wedding? Or my divorce for that matter.” He chuckles bitterly. A historical moment by the way. She was the first woman to run away from John not because of Sherlock’s constant presence but because of his absence. “No.” He shakes his head. “I hadn’t noticed.”

 

That makes Sherlock leave. As soon as he is out, John slams his fist into the table. There isn’t much passion; he just needs to do it.

 

Thirty-seven minutes. Another patient. Whenever the door opens, ostensibly by accident, John catches glimpses of Sherlock in his trademark black coat waiting in the lobby, mysterious and all. He looks like bloody Batman.

 

John shouldn’t indulge him, but he is a general practitioner in a lousy hospital, living off dietary supplements of three-year-old memories that are beginning to go bad.

 

He is done a full minute before the office hours are over. Sherlock is still waiting. John gives him a look that spells: _don’t dream for a second that I’ve forgiven you_ , but he doesn’t object to Sherlock stalking after him when he goes on to catch a cab home. If John had been a schoolgirl, he might have considered letting Sherlock carry his schoolbag at this point. Not out of any particular affection, mind you. The bag would have simply been heavy.

 

“Those things really mean a lot to you, don’t they?” Sherlock asks. He might be learning. The day a Holmes fully realizes the concept of sentiment will be the day the world implodes. But this is a start.

 

A false start, most likely. Like the cup of coffee all those years ago in Dartmoor.

 

“Fine,” John says pointedly. He must be a masochist after all. “Tell me how you did it.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes light up with childish excitement. He doesn’t know yet that he will have to tell John _why_ , too.

 

 _January 18–19, 2012_


End file.
